To Make It Shine
by Hekate1308
Summary: After the dust has settled, she does what she's always done - she cleans up other people's messes. Mrs. Hudson, Post-Reichenbach.


**Author's note: So I realized I needed to write. Now, I don't believe I deserve the right to call myself a writer, but this idea wouldn't leave me alone. Plus, I adore Mrs. Hudson. **

**I don't own anything except my imagination. I'd be most grateful for a review – don't get me wrong, I'm always honoured when I see that one of my stories has been favourited. But, if you do that, I'd really appreciate it if you could tell me why you did it. **

After the dust has settled, after she's said – or rather tried to say – goodbye, she does what she's always done: she cleans up other people's messes.

Not at first, though. No, at first she hadn't wanted to believe it. She's never thought Sherlock would do something like that – throwing his brain, his big heart (she knows it was big, she just knows, like every m- good friend would) away. Like it was useless. Like it was worthless.

She'd always liked the nice Detective Inspector who's given him so much work, and in a way she's thankful he was the one who brought her the news. The awful, never-changing, final truth. She doesn't think she could've handled it if it had been John. DI Lestrade – she remembers his name now – is used to bring people bad news, after all, and watching Sherlock jump has all but destroyed John. She doesn't think he could have managed telling someone they'd been close to – and she hopes, prays, that she was important to Sherlock – what happened.

She'd known, of course, that something was wrong. The moment she opened her door; the moment the DI looked at her with eyes that were so full of sorrow, so full of regret. She'd almost asked: "Who?", because naturally, at the moment she had thought of both her boys, but she'd stopped herself. She wasn't a relative; she didn't have the right to ask such questions.  
And he'd been really nice; he'd tried, God knows he'd tried, to be sensitive, but before he could even finish the sentence, he'd almost been crushed by his own grief. And he had every right to grieve, as she'd told him half an hour later, over a cup of tea (tea always makes people feel better), while he'd simply stared at her with tears in his eyes (and if there were tears in her eyes as well, she'd suddenly come down with a cold). He had been Sherlock's friend.

She hadn't told him she was grateful that he'd been the one to be overcome with grief, because otherwise it would have been her. Because otherwise she would have cried for Sherlock like one cries for a lost child. Because that wouldn't have been right. She was only his landlady. Nothing more.

So, instead of crying, instead of staring emptily into space, instead of being angry at God, at fate, at anything, really (and the newspapers would probably deserve it; she's sure they made her bo- Sherlock jump), she cleans up.

That's what she's always done, after all. Even after her husband turned to drink (she never found out why, it just happened), she'd always cleaned up in the morning, throwing the empty bottles away, making sure their home looked presentable. Even after he'd started taking his frustration out on her, she'd still kept their house in perfect order. And it wasn't that hard to conceal a few bruises. It didn't happen that often, after all.

And then – after he'd been convicted to death – she'd thought it proper to clean up their bedroom. It had been then that she'd found pictures of the murdered girl, even her jewellery that only the murderer could have taken. She hadn't really doubted his guilt before that – she'd only asked him once if he'd done it, when he'd already been in custody, and the look in his eyes had been answer enough – but still, it had been a shock. They'd been married for twenty years; she still thinks she should have known her husband better.

She'd given Sherlock the evidence; it had felt less of a betrayal than giving it to the police. And Sherlock had known what was going on; he'd taken one look at her and told her that she "obviously had an abusive husband" before she'd even said a word. And she'd thought she had hid the bruises well.

But, then, now that she comes to think of it, Sherlock had never been even close to normal. In a way, he'd been the son she never had (and she's allowed to think that, because it has the words "never had" in it, so it isn't a lie). Which makes John her son-in-law, in a way (she still doesn't know what exactly was going on between them, and right now, she's happy she never asked; it gives her the opportunity of believing what she wants, needs to believe, and she so desperately needs him to have been happy before he died, if only once, if only for a short time).

Cleaning up the mess after something bad had happened – it had always come naturally to her, she'd felt that making things shine from maybe too much polishing was, in a way, a fresh start. The past erased. The present cleansed from the ghost that would have haunted it otherwise. Everything new, and everything good.

That was how she'd gone on after her older sister left (and, at twelve, it was hard to comprehend why, though now, looking back, she remembers how their father would look at her sister, and instead of thinking about it, she makes tea).

That was how she'd moved on after her husband had been executed.

Cleaning things – how easy it had always been. Polish, smile, pretend that nothing happened. Comfort the others, who'd been left behind (how sad her mother had been after her sister had left, and yet, she'd helped her by keeping the house clean, cooking, doing the laundry, and all when she'd barely been twelve years of age. That's what she means when she calls it a natural talent – nobody told her how to do it, she just did).

But this – this is different.

Oh, she cleans up Sherlock's and John's flat, of course, as soon as it's clear that the dear doctor won't return (he didn't want to admit it, bless his soul, at Sherlock's grave, but she'd known, she always knows, she knew before he did – she started cleaning up even before the funeral, after all). She still makes the nice DI a cup of tea when he shows up, distraught, feeling guilty, suspended. She comforts Molly, who has been hopelessly infatuated with Sherlock for as long as she's known her (though, sometimes, there'll be this certain look in Molly's eyes that makes her suspect something's amiss; but then again, the look vanishes as quickly as it has come, so she's never sure she's actually seen it). She is even nice to Mycroft – who shows up at her doorstep, one day, and she can tell he's almost crying, she just can, but she also knows that he's too proud and too stubborn to allow himself to grieve. She knows John blames Sherlock's brother. But she can't believe he wanted this to happen, or even foresaw that this could happen. Or maybe she just doesn't want to believe it. Anyway, she's nice to Mycroft. He's grieving too.

She can't reach John in his grief. Nobody can. She wishes she could, but all that can help is time. Time to get over him. Time to forget. Time to, maybe, meet somebody who can help him forget.

A luxury she'll never have, she is sure of that.

Because even after she's cleaned up – Sherlock's ghost is everywhere. He is in the flat, complaining that his experiments have been thrown out. He's lamenting the loss of his violin – she gave it to Mycroft, he asked so nicely for it, and he had every right to it, after all. He's shooting at the wall because being dead is boring.

And downstairs? In her flat?

He's opening the fridge and taking out the cookies she made just the other day. He's loudly proclaiming "England would all" in her kitchen. And, God help her, he's even standing outside by her bins, laughing at the fool who'd threatened her so long ago, it now seems.

In the end, she decides she prefers it this way.

Because cleaning – it made the ghosts fade. Her sister, her husband, even her bruises. And she doesn't want Sherlock to fade. She wants him to stay here, where he belongs. Just like John will always have a place to stay, if he should choose to return. And, after a while, she realizes he will return. They share the same ghost, after all: One they don't want to fade, to be forgotten.

And, maybe, somewhere deep down, so deep that even she doesn't know it's there, hope exists. Because a long forgotten corner of her heart still believes in hope. And believes in Sherlock Holmes.

And this part – long forgotten, hidden, barely existing – knows he will return and waits for him.

Though this doesn't mean she'll clean up after him once he's returned. She's not his housekeeper, after all.

**Author's note: If you enjoyed this story, I have written another Post-Reichenbach fic about Lestrade. I've also tried my hand at a multi-chapter fic, and I'm always grateful for comments/reviews/etc. **

**But enough of desperately trying to win more readers – I still hope you enjoyed this story.**


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